


Berühren

by donotjustlive_fly



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: A Study in Touch, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, M/M, Pre-Season/Series 03, Warm Fuzzies, in which I completely ignore canon and pretend that Moriarty/Irene don't exist
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-04
Updated: 2017-01-20
Packaged: 2017-12-25 15:52:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/954962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/donotjustlive_fly/pseuds/donotjustlive_fly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A study of the sense of 'touch', and how it fits into the partnership, friendship, and relationship of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. </p><p> </p><p>  <i>(Johnlock. I am incapable of writing summaries.)</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sleep

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I am pleased to be (finally) posting my first work here on AO3- I've been lurking for a few months, and then I've been over on FFN on and off for upwards of 10 years now.  
> I stumbled onto Sherlock early February and fell madly in love, both with the show and the incredible fandom, and am proud to contribute, even just a bit. I hope you enjoy this little story of mine, because I had a lot of fun writing it and getting into John and Sherlock's heads for the first time! The story IS complete, with 8 loosely-related chapters- my goal is to update once a week (probably on Mondays, but I didn't want to wait another week to get this started).
> 
>  
> 
> **I do not own BBC Sherlock or its characters- I just enjoy borrowing them from time to time for my own entertainment.**

* * *

_Sleep_

~~*~~

My watch is doing a spectacular job of reminding me that it is 5:44 in the morning, I've slept for all of ten, maybe fifteen minutes max in the past 48 hours, and there is no foreseeable end in sight to this case. How my watch is telling me all this I'm not sure, but it's there between the constant flow of the second hand and the more gradual tick of the minute hand. I pause in staring at the time piece in question to watch my flatmate where he's standing, stock still as a statue, before our familiarly note-strewn fireplace; although he isn't moving, he also isn't entirely silent- snippets of rapid-fire contemplation float through the slightly chilled air of the flat, things that don't make sense to my half-awake ears (wouldn't make sense even if I were  _all_ -awake) but are undoubtedly vital pieces of solving this unsolvable puzzle.

"Duck... bananas... forest... hydrangea... lemon candy..." The constant cadence of his voice -more constant than time itself- does well to drag my mind rebelliously toward unconsciousness, and I drag a hand over my face as I finally come to a decision, one I'm sure will go unnoticed for the moment either way.

"Sherlock, I'm going to take a kip- you don't need me right now, and I'll be even less use to you than I normally am if I'm falling over in a dead faint from exhaustion while chasing your birds and bananas and flowers around London." He doesn't move, but time falters as his words fall flat for a moment.

"Duck, not a bird. And not just any flower, a hydrangea. Very well, I can see you're mostly asleep on me anyway..." Time comes to a complete stop as his voice falls away completely, and I blink in surprise from where I've carefully pushed myself into a standing position, swaying unsteadily on my feet as the world seems to tilt slightly off kilter. "Where are you going?" I smother my yawn in my palm, blinking drowsily at the man who has suddenly turned to stare at me.

"I just said, didn't I? Bed." I think the blank mask of his face slips for a moment, revealing a whirlwind of emotions I can't quite comprehend, but it's gone so quickly I brush it off as another semi-hallucination from my sleep-deprived brain.

"You should sleep down here in case something clicks and we need to leave quickly. I'd rather not waste time by having to go upstairs to rouse you." I quirk an eyebrow at him, but nonetheless can't find fault in his 'Sherlock logic'.

"Right. Well, can I just use your room?" He hesitates, and the slightest bit of alarm fires up in the back of my mind. "Sherlock?" He turns sharply to return his focus back to the casework, although I can tell from his posture that his mind isn't on it.

"Can't. My bed isn't exactly sleep-appropriate at the moment." I let out an exasperated sigh, digging the heels of my hands into my eyes with exhausted frustration before I respond.

" _Sherlock_ , we talked about not having experiments in your bedroom. The kitchen is bad enough..." He turns his head just enough that I can see his lips turned up in a small smile, but the way the moonlight slants across his face makes it impossible to fully read his expression. "Where would you suggest I sleep then, Sherlock, if not upstairs and not in your room?" He stays silent, but I can see tension tighten his shoulders, and I begin to wonder at his behavior; it's not until he gives a single twitch under my stare and clasps his hands behind his back that something clicks.  _He's nervous about this case. Things aren't quite fitting together and he can't figure out whom or what or why. So..._  A burst of affection for this peculiar man who has exploded across my life warms my chest, and a small, disbelieving smile splits my face unbidden.  _He's trying to tell me he doesn't want to be alone, not while he's feeling so in the dark. He doesn't want to be separated from his 'partner-in-crime' while he doesn't know what to expect_. I sigh and shake my head with a glimmer of amusement, turning to head up the stairs to my room, aware of the gaze suddenly pinned to my retreating back.

By the time I've come back downstairs with my pillow under one arm and a thick blanket over my shoulder, he has already sunk back into the case, but his entire form noticeably relaxes as I drop my bedding on the couch. I ignore the amused looks he's shooting surreptitiously at me as I settle into the cushions with grumbled complaints about the size and lack of comfort of the couch, stretching out on my back with a hand tucked under my neck and the other draped across my stomach. "Goodnight, Sherlock." I glance over at him briefly to catch him looking away quickly, and grin in spite of myself.

"Goodnight, John. Sleep well."

And if I wake a few hours later to find that my pillow has mysteriously been replaced by a warm, firm thigh and that long, slender fingers are tangled in my hair, I brush it off as yet another semi-hallucination from my sleep-deprived brain with a smile and rejoin my friend and flatmate in sleep.

* * *

 


	2. Case

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> " _John._ "
> 
> "....Sherlock?"
> 
> "Touch me again."
> 
>  
> 
> _(I rise once more. Miss me?)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still recovering from the end of Season 4. The one thing I'll say for this season is that it rekindled my love for the boys, and while going back to look at some of my old stuff I discovered I never finished posting some of my completed works. Haven't completely decided yet whether I'm going to drop all the chapters now or set them up to come out over the next week. One way or another I'm going to post it all though, I promise.
> 
>  
> 
> **I do not own BBC Sherlock or its characters. That right, somehow, belongs to its writers. I merely borrow them from time to time for my own entertainment.**

* * *

 

"None of it makes any _sense_ , John. It's like I have pieces from too many different puzzles- certain things fit together but I cannot connect them into a clear picture. What am I _missing_?" I watch the detective pace an agitated path through the flat from where I'm perched on the edge of the couch, keeping a wary eye on him while I sort through the tornado of pictures and documents scattered across the coffee table.

"Sherlock, you've been awake and working on this case for nearly a week straight now. Even _your_ brilliant mind can't go that long without feeling some amount of strain. You really should get some rest..." He comes to an abrupt stop in the middle of the room, turning on his heels to pin me with an irritated stare.

"How can you possibly speak of rest when there is a mystery to be solved, John? I can't take the time. Sleeping only slows my thought process anyway. No, I need- I need... what do I _need_?" His voice fades as he loses himself to his thoughts again, turning from me to stare blindly out the window. I sigh softly, rising from the couch and feeling my spine pop in complaint from the motion.

"How about some coffee?" The detective nods absently, muttering something about sugar under his breath, and I grip his arm briefly as I pass him on my way toward the kitchen. His body freezes violently under my touch, and I yank my hand away quickly as he spins toward me with wild eyes.

" _John_."

"....Sherlock?"

"Touch me again." The bewilderment must be clear on my face because he rolls his eyes in frustration and grabs my wrists. "Touch me- _oh_." His entire form relaxes like he's just had one of his epiphanies as he drags my hands up to press against his cheeks, eyes slipping shut in rapture and face smoothing out into a faint smile. I continue to stare at him with a mix of panic and confusion, wondering if my flatmate had finally gone off the deep end, before he shushes me. "You're thinking too loudly and ruining the affect. Hush."

"Sherlock, what the _hell_ -" I'm pinned once more by his ice blue eyes, although most of the irritation has fled, replaced by a surprising tranquility.

"Your touch is better than a thousand nicotine patches, John. I thought just having you in the room made my mind work more efficiently, but _this_ -" A frankly indecent sound of pleasure escapes from his throat and his eyes slide back shut, his fingers still loosely wrapped around my wrists, oblivious to my suddenly flushed face. "This is heavenly. Now be quiet, it won't take long now. It's all so clear..." I obediently remain silent, letting him keep my hands pressed to his cheeks, and trying to push away just how simultaneously bizarre and wonderful it was to have those sharp cheek bones under my thumbs and the day-old stubble prickling against my palms. My thoughts have just begun a slightly uncomfortable spiral toward wondering what it would feel like to be cradling his face like this in a different situation when he lets out a triumphant "ah!" and pulls away from me, turning to dash to the table and sorting through my carefully-made piles. "John, get Lestrade on the phone. Tell him they have the wrong man in custody, and that our murderer will be halfway to Russia if we don't move quickly. _Now_!" The moment shatters like a bullet through glass, and I stare at him blankly for a moment before I shake my head and pull out my phone.

- _a few days later_ -

Sherlock is pacing circles around the pair of corpses on the floor, muttering under his breath and occasionally ducking down to examine one or the other. I watch him with a touch of concern from where I'm leaning against the wall with Lestrade, quietly discussing the information we had already gleaned from the area and the other murder Sherlock believed to be connected; I recognize the gradually increasing whirlwind of frustration wrapping around his mind, and it's only the presence of the rest of the team lingering around the small room that holds me back from trying to help. However, I quickly discover I don't have much say in the matter- Sherlock suddenly stills entirely before whipping around to give me a pointed, slightly questioning stare.

"John." I glance around at the semi-full room before giving him a helpless shrug. _Your call_. His only response is a sigh with enough force that his curls briefly billow up from his forehead, before he strides over to me and grabs my hands, pressing them into the familiar position on his cheeks with another, more relaxed sigh; although his eyes are closed, I can almost see his incredible mind settling and sorting through the information he's just collected. As focused as I am on watching him _think_ up close and distractedly observing the way my fingers, seemingly without my command, have spread comfortably over his cheeks to skim lightly along the edge of his jaw, I nearly miss the sudden stillness of the room and the handful of bewildered stares we are now receiving. I ignore all of them in favor of just meeting Lestrade's gaze and raising an eyebrow in a silent challenge; he stares between the two of us for a long moment, a familiar look that's a mix of not quite being sure of how to handle the Consulting Detective and being in awe of him, before shaking his head and ushering the rest of the crew out of the room.

"Alright, folks, let's give him a few. We're almost done here anyway..." I shoot the DI a look of gratitude as he goes to pull the door shut behind him, and he gives me a gruff nod. Then- quiet. I relax, my thumbs unconsciously giving the sharp cheekbones under them a quick stroke, and although I can tell Sherlock is still lost in his own mind the last of the tension leaves his shoulders. We stand there for a few moments longer before he rises from the maelstrom and his eyes slide open slowly, glancing around with a hint of confusion at the silence.

"John...?"

"Lestrade kicked everyone out. Go ahead and finish sorting, and then we can get out of here. I'm starving." He gives me a long, calculating look in response to my grin, ice blue suddenly sharply focused, before giving me a short nod and closing his eyes again, his slender fingers pressing over my own.

His unspoken 'thank you' is in the lunch he pays for and the head against my thigh as we watch the news that evening, and I trace a 'your welcome' against his shoulder as he dozes off for the first time in nearly a week.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone is still here to read this, thank you. I know this fandom has been through a lot the last few years- I have too. Here's hoping things only go up from here, friends.


	3. Feet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Sherlock. Do you mind?"
> 
> "I would point out that _you_ are the one who decided to sit on the couch, but I understand that you're a man of ritual, so I'll let it go..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It turns out that I can't pre-publish chapters like I (for some reason) thought I could, so it's all going up now or else I'll get distracted and won't post anything again for another few years. Anyway, I remember this being one of my favorite chapters to write, and I believe it was one of the first Sherlock things I ever wrote. Enjoy!
> 
>  
> 
> **I do not own BBC Sherlock or its characters. That right, somehow, belongs to its writers. I merely borrow them from time to time for my own entertainment.**

* * *

"Sherlock. Do you mind?" A single, ice blue eye cracks open, taking in my sleep-rumpled pajamas and steaming cup of coffee in a single glance before he curls his knees toward his chest, making room for me where he's sprawled across the couch. I sigh slightly, well aware that this isn't an acquiescence but half a compromise, and settle into the worn cushions, automatically holding my mug out of the way when Sherlock's legs stretch across my lap, long toes curling languidly against the arm of the couch as I shoot them a brief look of reproach. "Is this really necessary? You are perfectly capable of sitting up, or if you insist on lying down, there's this wonderful thing called a bed. We do have one or two somewhere in the flat, you know." His lips twitch into the faintest hint of a smile, lacing his fingers across his stomach contently.

"I would point out that _you_ are the one who decided to sit on the couch, but I understand that you're a man of ritual, so I'll let it go. Anyway, you know I think better when horizontal, and bedrooms aren't for thinking. I have enough difficulty with falling asleep in bed as it is; I would merely confuse my body further by thinking where I'm supposed to sleep. Besides, why would I go in there when _you_ are out here?" He shoots me a sly look as I choke on a swig of coffee, setting the mug on the side table and rubbing my aching throat.

"Bloody hell, don't do that." He chuckles lowly, bracing the soles of his feet against the arm of the couch to arch his spine in an elegant stretch, undoubtedly not as oblivious as I'd like to think to the way my eyes inadvertently trace the lines of his lanky body. There's no response until he relaxes back into his original position, steepling his fingers under his chin in a familiar gesture and sliding his eyes shut, the corner of his mouth still turned up slightly, unconsciously.

"Hush. I'm thinking. If you can't be quiet go elsewhere." There is little acid to his words, his voice already taking on that light, dreamy quality it frequently does when he's like this, and I just shake my head, a fond smile crossing my face uninvited. We sit in peace for a few minutes, me finishing my coffee and he sorting through his brain with quick twitches of his fingers and subtle furrows of his brow. I set my mug aside and eye his feet ruefully, sliding my thumb in a firm line from ankle to toes along the top of his foot without much thought; a soft noise slips unconsciously from my companion's throat and his foot nudges insistently against my hand like a cat.

"Sherlock..." I get shushed again, his eyes flickering behind their lids with slight irritation in spite of the fact that he was still (seemingly without being fully aware of it) attempting to get his foot into my hands. With a defeated sigh, I shift around so my back is pressed against the arm of the couch and I have easier access to Sherlock's feet. Blue eyes pop open in surprise as I take his left foot between my hands and dig my thumbs into the firm muscle along the ball of it, staring down at me in bewilderment.

"John?" I raise my eyebrows and shush him, a smile stubbornly tugging at my mouth, and continue massaging the Consulting Detective's feet, earning another soft noise of pleasure. He melts back into the cushions, his hands sliding down to re-lace across his stomach and his eyes fluttering back closed. "Hmm… very well, continue. Just be quiet about it." I chuckle under my breath as the detective sinks back into his mind, although I can see that the frenzy has subsided.

"Y'know, I thought you couldn't think when other people were touching you." 

"Well we've clearly put that theory to rest, haven't we? Now _shut up_."

* * *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	4. Progression

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It happened so slowly John couldn’t place when the change had occurred.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so it continues.
> 
>  
> 
> **I do not own BBC Sherlock or its characters. That right, somehow, belongs to its writers. I merely borrow them from time to time for my own entertainment.**

* * *

 

It happened so slowly John couldn’t place when the change had occurred. He could remember the days when the closest he ever was to his peculiar flat mate, physically, was when they were taking a cab somewhere, making it impossible for the detective to be more than an arm's length away from him. For the first few months of their partnership, Sherlock would constantly keep a careful distance, at times not allowing them to even be in the same room for more than a handful of minutes.

And then, for seemingly no reason, things started changing.

Sherlock would deliberately move to work in whatever part of the flat John was in, even going so far as to make excuses to sneak into the former soldier’s room while he was sleeping. Gone were the days where the taller man would tuck himself into the corner of the taxi as they were heading to a case or tearing across the city in pursuit of clues- now he would sit close enough to the doctor that shoulders brushed and knees bumped together, still mostly focused on whatever he was researching on his phone but keeping it tilted so John could see. After one too many accidental split ups while chasing some criminal or another through the streets, Sherlock slipped into the habit of latching onto –at first- John’s sleeve, and later skipping straight to just locking their fingers. The armchairs were moved closer together so that Sherlock could tuck his feet under John’s leg while they looked over newspaper clippings for a case, claiming to be cold and too lazy to fetch socks. Letting John use him as a pillow. Using John’s lap as a footrest on the couch. Using John’s touch to focus.

And before he knew it, John started the unconscious contact also.

Ruffling a curly mop of hair when leaving the room. Digging his thumbs gently into tense muscles when Sherlock was hunched over his laptop. Dozing off against a bony shoulder while watching the news in the evening, and being unfazed to wake up with a slender arm wrapped around him and his ear resting above a steady heartbeat. Turning to his flat mate for reassurance, if not comfort, when the nightmares became too much.

And one unassuming afternoon in September, dropping a quick kiss to the Consulting Detective's forehead before heading out for groceries. The significance of the action didn't hit John until half an hour later, causing him to nearly drop the carton of eggs in his hand. As it was, he had to crouch down under the pretense of retying his shoelaces to prevent himself from collapsing entirely, mentally berating himself for taking the bizarre domesticity they'd slipped into over the past few months a step too far. However, he comes home to a flat mate seemingly unchanged, his ice blue eyes alight with the thrill of a new case, and things continue as they were. Until he begins receiving a quick press of lightly chapped lips to his cheek in thanks for coffee or tea, or a kiss to the back of his head while he's involved in writing up cases for his blog, or one particularly memorable morning in mid-November when Sherlock gleefully pulled him into a quick, full-mouthed kiss after the doctor made an apparently brilliant deduction.

Things progressed logically- or as logical as the pair ever was- from there.

Pressing close together on the couch under a blanket to stave off the December chill that stubbornly overtakes the flat no matter what they try, often times with an arm curled around a waist or slung over shoulders. Whoever was up latest crawling into the bed of whoever had collapsed first, their bodies fitting together comfortably without a thought. Fingers automatically finding each other and twining together over breakfast. Quick kisses on foreheads or cheeks or lips when either of them left the flat alone. Languid, sleepy kisses in the moments between dreams and reality. And with growing frequency, shagging each other senseless in the adrenaline-fueled aftermath of a successful case.

Yes, John wasn't sure when or how things had changed so drastically between him and his flat mate, but with a warm body curled into his side and head of dark curls tucked under his chin, he can't bring himself to care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	5. Couch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I am used to Sherlock Holmes and his eccentricities. And yet somehow, this is one of the most puzzling things he has ever done...

* * *

 

I am used to Sherlock Holmes and his eccentricities. I have run the alleys of London with him while chasing down a suspect. I have watched him dissolve into tears with victims and their families to get information out of them. I have seen him don a thousand different disguises, from policeman to hooker to everything in between. I have seen him go over a week without sleep and with little food and still be as sharp as when he's freshly rested and fed. I have observed him in the safety of our own flat, seen him relax and watched the 'cheekbones-and-collar' persona fade into my frustrating but wonderful flat mate, friend, and lover. I have seen him risk his life for the people he cares about in spite of the fact that his careful mind warns him he shouldn't, and I have seen the cautious gratitude in his ice blue eyes when the favor is repaid.

And yet somehow, this is one of the most puzzling things he has ever done, and I don't quite know how to deal with it.

"Sherlock..."

" _Shhhh_. I'm letting you continue being noisy with your laptop, don't ruin it by talking." I let out a frustrated sigh, closing the lid anyway and leaning forward to place it on the paper-strewn coffee table, although the gentle pressure of the arches of his feet against my hips keeps me from moving further. "You didn't have to do that."

"If my silence will help you get through this faster, I'll do it. Can I grab a book at least?" A small noise that is nearly a whine floats down to my ears, but he mutters an assent, eyes shut and fingers steepled in front of his lips as I rise from the couch to grab the novel I've been slowly working my way through for the past few months. When I return to the spot on the sofa I had claimed earlier that morning, before he had decided that perching on the back of it was his spot of the day to think, he presses his legs back along my sides and rests his elbows on his knees, his chin returning to it's original perch on the top of my head. I finally ask the question on my mind while he's temporarily distracted by nudging me into the position he wants me. "Sherlock, why? Just- _why_?" He lets out an annoyed breath, pinching my ear lightly as I try to turn my head to look up at him. 

"Stop that. Stay still. And you'll need to be more specific than _'just why'_ , John. Why what?" I stay silent, letting him read the irritation in my tense shoulders, and he sighs again, sliding his hands across the tight muscles in something that I would call an apology from anyone else. "Touching you in a more passive manner- like this rather than your hands on my face or something similar- gives my mind the freedom to wander without getting lost. It's not the precise focus needed for a case, but it's not the idleness of day-to-day thought. This is helping me- I'm not just doing it to be a _bother_." The slightly pouty way he finishes his explanation drags a brief laugh out of me, and I relax back into the couch and therefore his body in a silent acquiescence; his hands slip from my shoulders to rest absently on my chest and I feel the smile he hides in my hair. "Better. Now _stay still_. You're too distracting when you're moving."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	6. Sunrise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The city is eerily still at 4:32 in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nearly done now, just two more chapters.

* * *

 

The city is eerily still at 4:32 in the morning. Sure, there's a light or two on across the street, shadows moving against curtains, but Baker Street is seemingly devoid of life. This should no longer be a surprise to me, due to how often I am up at this hour or later, but I still find myself in a bit of awe in the early hours to see all of the bustling life I'm used to silenced. On this morning, however, the silence scrapes at the inside of my skull, further stirring the dark memories already keeping me awake.

_The silence of waiting for the inevitable strike, trying to hear the whistle of an incoming bomb. The silence that follows a fierce attack, listening for cries of pain. The silence of the dead, with their unseeing eyes and-_

"John?" I nearly leap out of my skin at the low, familiar baritone that cuts into my thoughts from behind me. My legs instinctually pull closer to my chest where I'm curled up in my armchair, which I'd turned to one of the windows. Cool hands fall to my shoulders and a pair of lightly chapped lips brushes the back of my neck. "If you wanted to watch the sunrise, I could have just set an alarm to wake you up. There's no reason for you to stay up all night." I tilt my head back to meet his warm gaze as he looms over me, although his brows furrow as he takes in the mess I'm sure I look. "You're upset. Nightmares?" A rueful laugh scratches at my throat, and I tuck my chin back into my knees, shivering slightly.

"Never made it that far. It's _fine_ , Sherlock, I didn't want to wake you. You haven't slept in- well, too long." I cut him off before he can berate me for not coming to him, and he merely sighs, stepping away for a moment before wedging himself into the chair behind me, long arms and legs cocooning my body along with the blanket he throws over us. His heat seeps into me quickly, and I find myself shifting around enough so I can tuck my head against his neck, appreciating the soothing motion of his slender fingers carding through my hair. "Sherlock..." He shushes me and brushes his lips against my ear, wrapping his body protectively around mine.

"John. Shut up." _I'm here. It's okay_. He doesn't need to say the words aloud for me to feel them, and I just burrow further into his embrace, pressing a brief kiss to his shoulder in thanks.

We stay there, sharing space in the old, raggedy armchair, until long after the sun rises; when I finally manage to doze off, Sherlock says nothing and remains still until I reawaken. Thus marks the day I begin consistently sleeping in the Consulting Detective's bed, whether the man himself is there or not (and he was, with gradually increasing frequency). The insomnia fades away like the infinite bad dreams that had plagued me since my return. I only see sunrises of my own (and occasionally Sherlock's) selection.

Life moves on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
